1

I saw CLIT
sprayed in fuzzy white
on the front door of a derelict house.

Amused by the light touch,
I searched for more of the artist’s work
in the blighted recesses of the city.

Later, I found
a CLIT on another door
at the last house of a dead end

next to a highway,
but when I looked closer,
the L and I were joined,

forming a U—CUT—
which I learned meant
the utilities were cut off.

A message to squatters:
the crumbling, vacant home
has no electricity, heat or water,

so don’t bother. It’s cold
and dark inside.

2

The project house I bought
needed a new boiler, to begin with.
I spent the better part of that winter

stripping wallpaper, sanding floors,
hammering down bowing plaster,
slowly deciding to hire out the rest.

One night I found broken glass
and empty beer cans. I boarded
the window with plywood, but

a second window was shattered the next day.
In the half-demoed living room were scattered
cigarette butts and scraps of lettuce.

I waited in my car till she came back,
ranting belligerently, wearing three
baggy jackets and a faded black ballcap.

Mohammed! I don’t fucking care,
Mohammed! she screamed down
the street when she saw me.

I gave her $250 to move on,
offered to drive her to a shelter,
call the United Way.

Walking away she waved
the wad of cash in the air,
shouting Terrorist!

It went like this.
I installed a security system
and drove the heavy duffle bag

she left behind to a nearby church,
posted a note on my front door
saying where I’d taken it.

But she was waiting for me in the foyer,
duffle bag open, siren blaring,
ashing her cigarette on the floor.

3

In the end only anger
persuaded her to leave
and never return.

Then contractors started work
and men were at the house
every day.

When it was time to paint
the new front door,
I spelled out CLIT

in long, free brushstrokes.
I took a picture with my phone
before painting it over.